


and i can't help but stare (because I see the truth in your eyes)

by Resacon1990



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Clone Wars, Heavy Angst, I skipped over a few things, M/M, Maul's ending is still the same, Not Canon Compliant, POV Second Person, Unrequited Love, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23921599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resacon1990/pseuds/Resacon1990
Summary: You don’t trust him, that’s clear.And yet, you see his slumped shoulders, his tired eyes, the hesitance in his stance as he stands across from you with his lightsaber hanging weakly at this side.You see yourself.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Darth Maul
Comments: 11
Kudos: 121





	and i can't help but stare (because I see the truth in your eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this entirely on Dave Filoni for clearly shipping Maul/Obi-Wan and my dear friend Kris for encouraging it.
> 
> You both suck ♡♡
> 
> This is just an exercise in writing in Second Person. I've always loved the style and have wanted to do one many times. Well, here it is! It's horribly sad but I genuinely enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Enjoy xx

You don’t know what to think at first.

You don’t trust him, that’s clear. You never have and you know you never will. He’s a Jedi, your sworn adversary, your personal vendetta with one another runs in your veins at this point, feeds your power and your hatred.

And yet, you see his slumped shoulders, his tired eyes, the hesitance in his stance as he stands across from you with his lightsaber hanging weakly at this side.

You see yourself.

You’re tired too. Tired of the battles, tired of this war, tired of the constant fight. You decide maybe he’s right in this moment, just this once, and you straighten your stance as you let your own lightsaber slip from your palm to dangle from your fingers.

He quirks an eyebrow at you. You want to punch him. You hold your tongue and deactivate your lightsaber, the purple glow flickers to only blue on walls of the tomb he’s chased you into.

He doesn’t say a word as he follows suit, the room falling dark. You don’t know what to do next, the path in front of you is shrouded and hidden. You watch him instead, waiting to see what he’ll do next. Your fingers stay pressed to the hilt of your weapon, uncertain if this is all just a scheme to get you to lower your guard.

But he turns from you, sits on an old statue that’s fallen to the ground and broken into pieces. He keeps his lightsaber in his hand too, you notice the shine of durasteel as it catches a ray of light that’s filtering down from a crack in the ceiling, but he doesn’t hold it in a threatening manner.

Silently, you sink to the ground. Your muscles ache, your head is thumping, you can hear the sound of battle above you raging on and you don’t care. You’re watching him instead, eyes narrow as you track them over his body, waiting and waiting to see what will happen.

But nothing does. Nothing happens. You sit quietly, side-eyeing each other the entire time with your weapons clasped in your hands. You want him to make the first move, want him to break this strained fragile silence between you, but time ticks by and you don’t know how long it’s been until he stands.

“Time to go, I believe,” he says, his voice low and hesitant. Perhaps he’s as tired as you, and you rise to your feet slowly and watch as he starts to back out of the room.

He doesn’t turn his back to you. Good, you think. You’d have attacked him if he had, ignited your lightsaber and shoved it right through him without a moments hesitation.

You wait until he’s gone. You try not to think about the confusion churning in your chest, the questions bubbling under your tongue. You don’t need answers, you need to move forward, get back to your troops, fight this blasted war.

You trying not to think of Obi-Wan Kenobi as you leave the planet. 

You fail.

...

It happens again and it surprises you even more.

You’re on some shitty swamp planet. Your legs are jamming up from the mud and water seeping into the mechanical joints, you can barely move as you rush to the top of the hill to fight whatever Jedi has yet to join the battle. You don’t want to, would prefer to get off this forsaken shithole, but it’s expected of you and your grip around your lightsaber has the curves biting into your hand.

It’s him that greets you though. For a second you’re reminded of the tomb, of him watching you from across the room and you falter. Your lightsaber doesn’t roar to life, doesn’t twist pleasantly in your hand.

Neither does his though. He cocks his head to the side, watches you with cautious eyes, and you raise your chin in defiance.

He doesn’t turn his back on you, but he does step away as he moves his lightsaber from his hand back to his belt. You do the same, the click of the lightsaber in it’s holster echoing in the still air around you.

The battle rages on as you just stand and stare at one another. Neither of you say a word, just watch each other and wait as time ticks by around you.

You want to ask why, what has happened for this to occur. You don’t want to be the first to speak though, so you keep your eyes narrow and fingers flexing at your side and just _wait_.

It doesn’t come naturally. Normally you don’t wait, especially not when it comes to him. You charge into battle without a thought, dark tendrils rushing over your shoulders and bursting you into life. Normally you’re ready to rip him apart with your teeth, tear him into pieces and gloat over the remains.

That’s gone now. Maybe it’s been replaced with this overwhelming exhaustion that creeps through you, up your arms and over your back. The weight of the universe sits on your shoulders no matter how hard you shrug it off.

It’s you who decides to leave this time. You straighten yourself up, pull your lightsaber out and your lips twitch into half a smile when you see him yank out his own. You narrow your eyes, watch as he starts to move into a fighting stance.

You turn your back on him as you leave. You know he won’t attack. Jedi are too proud, too pathetic. Him included.

You reach your troops and start to shout orders. You make up a story about fighting him, battling until you’d lost each other in the swamp lands.

None question you.

...

It becomes a habit.

You’re surprised, to say the least. But after the same thing happens the next five or six times you see him, you decide that it’s not worth fighting against.

You still fight other Jedi. You killed a padawan only a couple of weeks back. Although, you had done it quickly and as painlessly as possible.

You try not to think it was because of him.

Sometimes you sit, most times you stand. You watch each other with sharp eyes and don’t ever let go of your lightsabers. It’s not comfortable but it’s not horrible. Sometimes you think about striking when he doesn’t expect it, but he never turns his back on you like you do him.

You don’t trust him, he doesn’t trust you, but you trust that he’s a Jedi and that is a surprising comfort at times.

He is the first one to break the silence. You take your small victories where you can. It’s something stupid, something about the local fauna of the planet they’re on.

“They can kill a man if you get too close,” he muses over some plant nearby, and you glare from where you stand an arms-width away. “They do smell divine though.”

They do, but you won’t give him the satisfaction that you think so. You roll your eyes, turn your head away and glare at the plant itself. You hear him laugh behind you, and it makes something in your chest squeeze.

It’s you the next time though, you who talks in the heavy air. You’re in another tomb, surprisingly a lot of the time you are, and you gesture vaguely at one of the statues across from you.

“Darth Revan,” you mutter, and he looks at you in surprise. “Have you heard the tale?”

He hasn’t, you know it’s a lie. All Jedi know of Revan, but you tell the story nonetheless. It’s a useless story, but it’s safe ground as he stays quiet until the end before he asks a few questions.

By the time you’re finished, it’s well past when one of you should’ve left, and he’s gone within seconds when you point it out.

It’s the first time he turns his back on you. You don’t move.

...

Strangely, you start to enjoy it.

It’s the closest thing you’ve experienced to peace, at least you think it is. Quiet conversation, small smiles, the occasional laugh. It’s strange, something you’re not used to.

Maybe you like it?

You try not to think about it often, about him. You still fight the Republic, still kill and attack and goad clones to their deaths. It’s your nature, in your very bones. Nothing can ever change you that much.

Maybe you wish this could though, that this could ease some of the pain that rolls and coils in you. Maybe he could be the key to helping you to stop hurting.

Those thoughts are fleeting and ignorant. You try not to think them.

But when he looks at you and his eyes are bright, you can’t help it.

...

You come across him with your brother.

He has Skywalker with him. You want to jump across the distance and rip out Skywalker’s throat, feel the heat of life ebb out from beneath your hands and know you’re the one who did ended it.

But you don’t even pull out your lightsaber, your eyes focused instead on _him_ as he stumbles to a halt behind Skywalker.

You look at each other. You can feel the heat of your brother’s blade burning beside you and the glow of Skywalker’s lights up the room. You hesitate, your eyes burn as you watch him do the same.

But he pulls out his blade and looks away. You draw your lightsaber last. You wish you hadn’t.

Your brother asks you later, stares at you across the cockpit of your ship. You don’t meet his eyes.

“You seemed... hesitant,” he growls. Your shoulders straighten as you stiffen.

“A lapse in judgement,” you reply. You don’t say anymore, let your brother draw his own conclusions.

He turns away from you, hands settle on the controls of the ship. He doesn’t say anymore.

You bite your tongue and find it hard to breathe.

...

You have no hesitance the next time.

Your lightsaber is in your hand and humming it’s ignition before he’s even in the room. You see a red haze settle over your eyes, the anger thrums violently in your veins, you’re ready to strike.

But he doesn’t pull his own weapon. He stands across the room and watches you with sad eyes. You want to know what he’s thinking, want to tear open his mind and plunge inside, drink your fill of his thoughts until maybe you can understand what’s happening between you.

He stands tall, his hands hang empty at his sides. He doesn’t move, just breathes slowly as you watch him.

You could strike. You doubt he’d have time to stop you. It would end all of this if you do, end the churning in your stomach and the headache behind your eyes. It might even go further, might end this war in some way.

It would certainly end the war inside you.

You turn off your lightsaber. He tells you about Stewjon.

...

The first time you kiss him is satisfying.

It’s been well over a year. A year of these illicit moments during the war. You’ve never intentionally sought him out yourself, but it’s doesn’t escape your notice that you don’t meet many Jedi anymore.

You see Skywalker with him sometimes. You ignite your blade. You attack Skywalker with all the rage you feel. You attack him but you hold back and you try to convince yourself otherwise.

You hardly know anything about him. You went to Stewjon once, tried to imagine him there amongst the farmers and decided that could never happen.

But it’s on Malastare that you close the space between you. The battle around you is vicious and unmerciful, one of many in this long long war. You’re inside the palace, him having chased you inside while leaving his clones to decimate what’s left of your small group. You know you won’t win this fight.

You know he will let you go.

You slam against him, smash him into the wall and crush your lips together in a bruising mash of teeth and tongue. He bites you, his fingers painfully tight as they dig into your arms and you groan at the feeling.

It’s hot and hateful and you revel in the feelings, revel in making him feel everything he knows he shouldn’t. You sneer at the Jedi Order as you bite his lip, laugh at the Lightside as he snaps at your tongue until there’s a trickle of warm blood between you.

He pushes you away, his lips red and shining and you lick away the blood on your own. He glares at you, you glare back. You want to press in again, make him mewl underneath you, make him yours.

He leaves, and you laugh.

...

It doesn’t always happen.

Sometimes you throw him to the ground, settle on top of him and try to make him beg. There’s nothing in it for you, your lower half gone in a battle long ago, taken by the man under you, but when you see his hard eyes looking back and feel his refusal to submit it makes something else in you crow.

You wish you could fuck him, you could dominate him in more ways than one, but you can’t. You can’t do much more but bite marks into his skin and decide that’s enough.

It’s not love. It’s not even like. You still feel a burning hatred for him and you know he hates you too. He’s condescending at times, tries to tell you hate is against the Jedi way and he doesn’t feel it, but you know better.

You know the emotions in his eyes. You know they’re in your own.

Sometimes you still just sit and talk. He brings up Skywalker occasionally and it makes you burn with anger. You can see he cares for Skywalker, more so than he probably should, and you grit your teeth when you hear the quiet loss in his voice.

You try to make him forget, even for a moment. You tell yourself it’s because you hate to see him look so pathetic. You tell yourself that you’re not jealous, that you don’t want to be the one that makes him look so helplessly lost.

You never succeed.

“Then be with him,” you growl one day into his neck, your lips gracing over the dark mark your teeth have left there.

“He’s with another,” he mutters back, and you know the moment he realises he’s said something wrong when he stiffens beneath you and pushes you away.

You’ve always had your suspicions. You know who Skywalker is with, know it’s most certainly the Senator Amidala. Your lips curve into a nasty smile as you look at him.

This could change everything.

But you don’t know what it is that leaps in your chest when you look at him, see his wide eyes. It’s an emotion you’ve not come across before, it makes the Darkside in you twist and turn in an angry guttural way. It doesn’t like it, doesn’t want it.

You don’t know what it is, but it has you shaking your head. You don’t promise aloud, don’t waste time on meaningless words you know he wouldn’t believe.

But somehow you know, you’ll never mention this to another.

...

Your brother notices, of course he does.

“There’s something different about you,” he mentions. You don’t want to say anything, don’t want to encourage him, and when you look up, his eyes are calculating.

You stay silent.

“You’d tell me if there was something... wrong, wouldn’t you?” he asks, and you bite your tongue. You think of telling him about Kenobi, about your moments with him, the new feeling curling it’s way through your chest that’s warm and painful all at once.

“Of course,” you say, and you wonder when you started to lie to your brother.

...

You know of your old master’s plan. You always have.

Your old master hangs around like an ache you can’t get rid of, like a weight on your shoulders you can’t shake.

You wonder if you should tell him about how his clones will turn on him one day, how Skywalker will betray him. You almost do one time, when he’s lying beside you quietly, not touching but close enough. You think he deserves to know.

You think it might break his heart though. You see the way he looks when he talks about Skywalker, the light in his eyes that doesn’t burn for you.

You don’t say a word though, you keep the plan quiet and you don’t feel guilt every time you kiss him, every time you put your hands on his skin and feel his hesitance. You know why, you know it’s not the Jedi Order that has him like this, that it’s that blasted Skywalker.

You curse Skywalker’s ignorance. You think him arrogant and stupid for not seeing who is waiting for him if he were to ever look his way.

It fills you with rage and jealously. The Darkside approves.

...

You don’t know when you start to think of the future.

This thing doesn’t have one, you know that. You know a day will come when one of you will die, or the war will be over, or he will come to his senses. You know that.

But even then, you can’t help but think of what might be. You think of him succumbing to the Darkside, you imagine him being at your side, you imagine his lightsaber with a red glow, his smile turning sinister, the sheer power that would radiate from him.

You think of his blue eyes turning yellow like your own.

You can’t help but think that would be a shame.

You think about leaving the Darkside behind. It doesn’t like that, sets claws in your side and tries to drag you back, but you think of his warm hands around yours, quiet moments together outside of a war, his soft smile just for you, the twinkle in his eye when he speaks of Skywalker twinkling for you instead.

You know what that feeling is now, that one that the Darkside hates.

It’s hope.

...

You kiss him gently the next time.

You don’t know what you’re doing. You can only feel anger and rage brimming beneath your skin but you slow the kiss down, pull back when you want to press forward, keep it soft when you want to bite down and dominate.

He’s surprised. You see it in his blue eyes as he looks at you with his mouth open slightly. Your eyes drop to his lips, you want to claim them as your own.

You wait though. Soon he smiles, eyes crinkling a little as he leans in and kisses you back. It’s even more gentle, soft, like feathers running gently over your lips.

You feel something break in you, in your chest, and it takes a long moment to realise it’s your heart.

You pull him in, turn the kiss back into bruising anger, feel him sigh underneath you and you can feel the disappoint. You don’t care though, you don’t know anything but this, this glaring hatred.

It’s what you tell yourself over and over, and maybe one day you’ll believe it.

...

It ends. It was always meant to end.

You think maybe it should’ve ended earlier when you feel the world drop from beneath you at his words. You don’t love him, you don’t like him, but you don’t hate him anymore.

You don’t know what you feel for him.

But you do feel betrayed, the rush of anger loud in your ears as you ignite your lightsaber. You haven’t for a long time, not in front of him. It feels wrong in your hands as you glare at him.

He just looks sad though, eyes downcast as he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you think he doesn’t sound sorry.

“Save it,” you snarl, the words twisted and bitter on your tongue.

You wait for him to draw his own lightsaber, but he doesn’t. He just stands there looking at you, lips tightly pinched and you want to reach over and bite them open, lick into his mouth and press him against the wall until he gasps your name.

Instead, he walks from the room, doesn’t turn his back to you until he’s out the doorway. 

You don’t know if you would’ve attacked or not.

A couple of days later you hear about the Fall of the Republic, of Order 66, Sidious’s plan coming to fruition.

You think you should’ve told him.

...

He haunts you.

It’s ruthless and overwhelming. You’re alone now, your brother dead, no master, your army gone, nothing in this world except you and the Darkside that won’t leave you alone.

Sometimes you think of turning to the Lightside to spite it, but then power rushes through your veins and you know why you could never leave it behind.

You’re alone, but he’s still there. You see him out of the corner of your eye sometimes, hear his voice in your head, think of his smile and laugh and you bite the inside of your cheek until it hurts enough to replace the thoughts.

You try to survive. You become a Crime Lord, you run your syndicate without any mercy, savage and vengeful like you’re sure he wouldn’t want you to be.

You confuse the lines between who you are and who you know he would hate. Sometimes you have moments of mercy, moments when that old feeling you used to get around him rises in your chest and you find yourself acting without the Darkside over your shoulder.

You try not to let those moments become too many.

You fail.

...

You go to Stewjon once in the following years.

You’ve been before. You didn’t think much of it. This time you’ve got a purpose though.

You find a gravestone. It’s got Kenobi written on it. Hundreds of them do. You pick one at random and place a lightsaber down on top of the grass in front of it.

It’s not his but it has a blue blade. You think it’s good enough.

You don’t say a word. You stare at the gravestone and wonder if you should. There are no words though, nothing bubbling away for you to say. You don’t know what you feel but there’s a knot in your chest you can’t describe.

You pick up the lightsaber, you put it back down, you pick it up again. The metal cuts into your hand as you hold it tight.

You throw it away and don’t look back.

...

You don’t know what you feel when you find out he’s alive.

It’s overwhelming, gut-wrenching... heartbreaking.

You can’t decide if you’re excited or betrayed.

You wonder why he’s never told you, but you remember you’re not friends, you never have been. Sure, there were moments when you could’ve considered it, but you remember the look on his face when he left you for Skywalker and it makes you furious.

You still feel he owed it to tell you at least.

He’s on Tatooine, something that doesn’t surprise you. It makes you want to scream, to tear off your skin and let the Darkside have at you. You remember that shithole of a planet, remember fighting his master, remember the taste of defeat.

You want to go, want to laugh in his face and taunt him over Skywalker, about how your old master succeeded where he could not. You want to rip open his chest and crawl inside, demand he embrace the darkness he must feel, nurture his fall.

But there is some part of you beating at the door of your own darkness, asking if he’s not suffered enough?

You don’t know what to do.

You set a course for Tatooine.

...

You can’t find him at first.

You don’t know why you thought it would be easy. You wonder if you thought you would turn up and he would just magically appear in front of you.

It annoys you that he hasn’t.

When you do find him, your breath leaves you in a sudden rush. He’s older now, he looks tired, his hair white, his shoulders slumped and you want to reach out and run your hands over them. You want to wrap him in your arms and breathe him in.

You think you might need to reconsider how you feel about him.

You figure out quickly why he’s here. He’s protecting someone, and you feel your gut clench knowing that whoever it is, he chose them over you. Your stomach is churning, your chest is aching.

His eyes are dim as he looks at you. You reach up and rub at the spot over your heart and bite down on the urge to reach for him.

Instead, you ignite your lightsaber.

You wait for him to follow suit. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even move until you mention you know why he’s here. You know that look in his eyes. There’s only been one other person who has sparked that look before, someone who now calls himself Darth Vader.

Of course, you realise at once. You remember rumours of Senator Amidala being pregnant. She supposedly died without having the child, but perhaps not. You think maybe her child is here somewhere, Skywalker’s child is here somewhere.

He ignites his own blade as you taunt him. You see the anger in his eyes and it fills you with satisfaction knowing you can still make him _feel_. Your lips curl into a horrible grin.

You lunge first.

Something inside you hurts.

...

Sometimes, you’ve wondered what it would be like to turn your back on the Force.

About how you wouldn’t feel the cruel tendrils of the Darkside holding you in place. You’ve wondered what that freedom would taste like, what it would feel like. 

The idea scared you.

You wondered a lot about what it would be like to leave the Force behind with _him_ though, both of you turning your backs on the thing that has demanded so much of you. You’re not even a whole person anymore, your legs robotic and your mind half-feral. You’ve seen the slump of his shoulders and the pain in his eyes. He’s lost just as much.

You would imagine his hand in yours, simply holding it. You don’t know at all what that would feel like, maybe soft and gentle. You haven’t known much softness or gentleness in your life.

You’ve thought about how maybe he could’ve shown you what that is like. You’ve wondered if maybe you could smile for him one day and it would be so easy that your cheeks wouldn’t hurt at the unfamiliar movement.

You’ve thought a lot of things, wondered more. It doesn’t matter though.

Because in the end, you were never meant for him.

...

Surprisingly, at the end, you don’t feel the Darkside.

It’s gone, your constant companion throughout all these years has left you. Instead, there’s just a hollow emptiness as you fall back onto the sand with a burning strike across your chest and your broken lightsaber in your hands.

He catches you though. You’re not expecting it but the moment you feel his hands lowering you to the ground, your chest erupts with something warm and peaceful.

You didn’t think you even knew what peace felt like.

You look up at him, dim in the moonlight of the desert. He looks sad, his eyes crinkled as he watches you. He doesn’t say a word and you don’t know what to say either.

You’re dying. You know that. You want to reach out for him, wrap your arms around his neck and spend your last moments pressed into his chest.

That was never to be your privilege though.

You can feel that emptiness in your chest growing. You think you might be angry but you can’t muster up the energy to feel it. This is dragging out longer than you thought it would. You didn’t think you’d ever be able to have last words, you thought your life would just be snuffed out without a sound.

You want to see his eyes twinkle though, just this one last time, and you know what you have to say.

“Are they the chosen one?” you ask, thinking of the child he is no doubt protecting. You wait, wait for the words to settle between you, and then it happens.

His eyes light up, just the exact way they used to when he would speak of Skywalker. You wish they would’ve done that for you, just _once_.

“He is,” he murmurs back, and you nod your head. The emptiness has nearly enveloped you, you think you can fall into it now.

“He will avenge us,” you sigh, and you see what looks like a lone tear trail down his cheek. Your chest gives one lone thump. At least you know you were worth a tear to him.

You think it’s enough.

…

**Author's Note:**

> **Now with[beautiful artwork](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23993059) but the fantastic [ineloquent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineloquent/pseuds/ineloquent)! Thank you so much, it's just stunning!! I am so lucky!!**


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